


a philosopher and a vagabond

by aces



Category: Benjamin January Mysteries - Barbara Hambly, Julian Kestrel - Kate Ross
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Historical, Music, Musicians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-18
Updated: 2011-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-17 02:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aces/pseuds/aces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As one man comes home, another man leaves his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a philosopher and a vagabond

**Author's Note:**

> I started this before I read _Dead and Buried_. And then I decided I’d make it work, even if I was jossed. So, I have almost certainly taken liberties with one canon or the other, or more likely both; general spoilers apply, though I’ve tried to keep them as general as possible. I have also relied heavily on Bartlett’s Quotations. Hannibal would probably be ashamed of me.  
>  A/N, part 2: Title comes from this line: _A man who leaves home to mend himself and others is a philosopher; but he who goes from country to country, guided by the blind impulse of curiosity, is only a vagabond_.

Julian unpacked enough necessities for the night and following day. He had brought no man with him; he would have to engage a valet when he arrived in London, probably almost as soon as he found himself lodgings, if not before. One could not be a gentleman without his valet. Not even a gentleman with little income.

Julian did not wryly smile at the thought, though he wished he could have.

He looked about his room at the plain, sparse furniture and refrained from sighing. He was not looking forward to taking his dinner alone in the private parlor he had engaged; then again, he was not sure he would have enjoyed any company either. He worried about what the conversation would have been. A foolish thing, perhaps, and a thought he would have admitted to no one else, not even his father or old mentor.

Julian opened the window in his room and looked out. He could hear and feel but not see the water; the sky was overcast and grey, and there were other inns and buildings between him and the Channel. Squat, serviceable buildings, as sensible as the Englishmen who had built them and who lived in them.

It was his first night back in England after almost ten years, and already Julian Kestrel felt perversely homesick.

Julian sighed.

He remained by the window a while longer, enjoying the breeze on his face, closing his eyes and attempting to pretend he was in Venice or Amsterdam. This, too, was foolish he knew; he had come back to England because it was time, because he could not imagine doing otherwise, because some sense of duty and honor obliged him. And yet…

Julian heard music playing.

He blinked his eyes open and peered over the edge of the window, acutely curious. Not a sea shanty from one of the numerous sailors in Dover, not a lad’s whistle or a lass’ trill. He heard a _violin_.

He could see nothing through his window, but he knew the player was outside, and nearby. Julian withdrew and made his way downstairs and out the inn, as slowly and casually as if he were merely intending a bored saunter through the streets of Dover.

He strolled around the side of the inn and quickly found his violinist. The man sat behind the inn, near the stables, perched incongruously on a fence post and wearing a fine velvet coat and embroidered weskit with pale pantaloons. A small man, no taller than Julian and thinner, his hair unfashionably long and tied back in a queue. His violin was a finely crafted one, Julian’s ear could tell, and the player a perfect match to the instrument. This was no mere fiddle and fiddler.

Rossini, Julian thought and lounged against the wall of the inn, careful even so that nothing would smudge his coat. He closed his eyes and listened.

The violinist pulled emotion out of every note, without ever becoming overly sentimental or trite. He trilled with the virtuosity of any operatic singer, his fingers apparently rippling through the scales effortlessly, and he appeared to pour his entire soul into the music through his instrument. It took all Julian’s will not to burst into song with him when he reached one of the tenor solos.

Eventually the violinist stopped playing. It took Julian’s conscious mind a moment to realize this, still caught up as he was in the memory of the music he had just heard. When he opened his eyes he found the player looking at him inquiringly from his perch on the fence post. The man had absurdly tranquil eyes.

Julian took a moment to breathe and then stepped forward. “I applaud you, sir,” he said. “Your playing is, in a word, miraculous.”

“And I applaud you,” the other man said courteously, “for deigning to listen to it in such surroundings. _And muse on Nature with a poet’s eye_ ,” he added irrelevantly. “Are you staying at this inn?”

“Yes,” said Julian, “and you?”

The other man smiled, though there seemed little mirth in it. “For the night only,” he said. He clambered down from his seat and bowed low to the horses just visible in the stables. No ostlers or other servants were visible in the grounds. “They all disappeared when they saw me out here,” the man said, as if reading Julian’s mind. “Apparently it unnerved them to find a gentleman playing a violin to the horses.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Julian said gravely.

The other man glanced at him in mild surprise and then laughed. “ _Le monde, chère Agnès, est une étrange chose_ ,” he said and held out his hand. “It is always a pleasure to meet a fellow man so appreciative of music,” he said.

“A pleasure indeed to meet you, sir. I’m Julian Kestrel,” Julian said as he shook Sefton’s hand, his own name sounding momentarily foreign to him. He would have to learn to ignore that feeling, or become accustomed to it, and quickly, he thought to himself. He would go by no nom de plume, not when he was on his home soil where his mother and father had chosen his name.

“Sefton,” the other man replied, as if testing out the name, and Julian felt his pulse quicken at the thought that he might not be the only one who had used other names in the past. “Hannibal Sefton.”

“Please, sir, join me for dinner,” Kestrel said on an impulse. He could not bear the thought of eating alone, with only an inn servant coming in and out to bring and remove dishes. Not tonight of all nights. Better a fellow music lover who, Julian had a notion, would not ask him awkward questions.

“I couldn’t,” said Sefton, turning to pack up his violin. He held it with the delicate care he might a woman; it had been lovingly polished, was obviously well taken care of. More so than Sefton’s wardrobe. His cravat was tied messily, his boots not polished; something about his general aspect made Julian wonder if his pockets were to let.

“Do you have another engagement?”

Sefton paused to consider. “No,” he said, “but I doubt I would be good company.”

“Better than no company at all, I think,” Julian said softly, hearing something in Sefton’s tone of voice, and waited.

Sefton glanced at him again. He was probably only a few years older than Julian, but his face was more lined than it should have been, and though his dark eyes were clear and steady there was something in them that indicated he had a great deal on his mind. At last he smiled again, with that same mild surprise, and said, “I shall be charmed to be your guest. Be warned, though: if you admit among polite company than you have dined with me, your name shall be as mud.”

“I shan’t tell a soul,” Julian promised and led the way back into the inn and up to his private parlor. Sefton put down his violin case on a table near the windows and looked out for a moment. There were no buildings to block the view of the Channel from this corner of the building; Julian could see it in the distance over Sefton’s shoulder.

Julian sat down at his ease. “You set sail tomorrow?” he asked.

Sefton turned back to him, a trifle too quickly. “How astute of you,” he said, sitting down as well at Julian’s gesture. “In the morning, theoretically. The captain assures me the wind will blow in the proper direction and all will be easy. I am not at all sure I agree with him. _I am as a weed Flung from the rock, on Ocean’s foam to sail Where’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail_.”

“Tell me the news in London,” Julian said to distract him. “I’ve been out of the country for many years.”

“Indeed?” Sefton looked at him curiously. “Where were you situated?”

“France for a time,” Julian said, with more ease than he had expected, though not an hour since he had dreaded having this conversation for the first time. “Italy, Switzerland. I traveled a great deal.”

“ _The next way home’s the furthest way about_ ,” Sefton said meditatively. “I wonder that I have the courage…” He shook himself and looked up again after a long moment. “I’m terrible at gossip,” he said, “I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything particularly scandalous or what the latest _on-dits_ are.”

“Where do you travel to?” Julian asked. “Calais?” Sefton nodded. “And after that?”

“Paris,” Sefton said. His eyes and his voice strayed as he looked out the window at the water again. “I go to meet some friends already there.”

“Your final destination, I suppose?” Julian sat back, crossing his legs.

Sefton turned back to look at the younger man. “That,” the violinist said seriously, “is the question, and the answer is indeed a consummation devoutly to be wish’d.”

Julia smiled suddenly. “Why Rossini?” he asked.

Sefton considered. “Mood,” he shrugged at last. “One cannot question the vagaries of mood; one must simply follow them.”

“Mozart,” Julian said after a moment of thought, and Sefton raised his eyebrows. “After dinner,” Kestrel said, “I think we could both do with some Mozart.”

Sefton smiled, slowly. “And what of our landlady?” he suggested. “And the other guests of this fine establishment?”

Julian’s eyes widened in delicate disbelief. “You don’t think they would not also enjoy some Mozart?”

Sefton’s grin widened.

*

They discussed music over dinner, and literature, Sefton dropping into his conversation references from Euripides to Chaucer to Spenser with such ease he left Julian slightly dizzied at first. They discussed people too, Julian casually asking about certain individuals, Sefton carefully not discussing others. They moved onto travel, eventually, Sefton carelessly not asking questions that Julian just as easily failed to answer, even as he addressed other unspoken concerns. Sefton had spent a great deal of time in Paris himself, though Julian had no memory of meeting him, and something about his talk suggested to Kestrel he planned to venture further about the continent.

The wine flowed between them; Sefton could hold his own, but as the night wore on Julian heard more and more of an Irish lilt to the man’s voice. Julian liked it, finding it much more melodious than the down-from-Oxford accent. And eventually Sefton did indeed open his violin case and play again, and this time Julian—reckless, perhaps, and a trifle too deep in his own cups most definitely—sang with the other man’s playing. His voice was in need of practice; it had been too long since he had ventured to sing, but it felt—it felt like a sort of freedom. He knew Sefton would be gone soon and would share no tales of the returned English tenor he met in Dover.

So they sang and played, Julian sitting on the window ledge nursing a glass of port, Hannibal lounging in a chair by the table like a disreputable leprechaun who could charm the gold out of his violin strings. Haydn, Brahms, Beethoven, Salieri, Schubert, songs that could claim no single composer but that had existed in the green hills across the Irish Sea for decades, if not centuries. They heard not a peep from the other guests or the landlady, though they played long into the night.

This, Julian thought at one point, this was indeed the way to spend his first night back in England. He could face tomorrow after this, he could face London and society and the world after this, so long as he remembered that there was music like this in the world, and people who could play and appreciate it.

Eventually, Sefton drained his glass and set down his violin. He looked exhausted but happy, happier than he had downstairs by the stables. Julian wondered suddenly if the other man truly were staying in this inn, or if he could even afford that, and felt his chest tighten.

“I enjoyed that,” Sefton said, unaware of the turn Julian’s train of thought had taken. “ _O Music! sphere-descended maid, Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom’s aid!_ ” He stood up to put away his violin, nary a stagger. His accent was back under control too; Julian admired his ability to hold his alcohol. “A wonderful way to spend one’s last night on one’s own shores.” He turned then and half-shrugged, another wry smile pulling at his mouth. “Close to one’s own shores, in any case. _When I was at home I was in a better place; but travelers must be content._ ” His hair had come undone from his queue at some point during a particularly athletic musical phrase, and he had long since abandoned his coat in favor of shirtsleeves that allowed more freedom of movement. He slipped back into his coat now. “A pleasure, Mr. Kestrel,” he said and held out his hand.

“The pleasure was all mine, Mr. Sefton,” Julian replied, gripping his hand. He searched Hannibal’s face. “I hope you leave by choice,” he said at last, despite himself. He of all people knew what it was to deal with prying eyes and words.

Sefton’s gaze shifted over Julian’s shoulder, and then he looked again at the younger man. “ _Life let us cherish, while yet the taper glows, And the fresh flow’ret pluck ere it close; Why are we fond of toil and care? Why choose the rankling thorn to wear?_ My choices have slowly dwindled, Mr. Kestrel, but when I look back on what choices I have made, I doubt I could have changed any of them.” His focus narrowed, his dark eyes became intent as he looked at Julian. “Good luck to you, Mr. Kestrel. I hope you find what you’re looking for here.”

Julian blinked, the only outward sign he allowed of how startled he felt. “I’m not sure anyone should find what he’s looking for,” he said lightly. “It sounds exceedingly tedious.”

There was a mischievous glint in Hannibal’s eyes, and he saluted Julian with his violin case. “What an entirely appropriate response,” the older man said as he headed for the parlor door. He turned just before opening the door and sketched an elegant bow. “May your life never be graced with tediousness.”

“Good luck to you as well, Mr. Sefton,” Julian said just as the other man was slipping out. “I hope you will enjoy your travels.”

Hannibal stopped on the threshold, his hand on the doorknob, his face in shadow so that Julian could not see it. “If I continue to find such connoisseurs of music and literature as you,” he said slowly after a moment, “I believe I will. _The worst solitude is to have no true friendship_ , but such friendships can be found even in a single night of good music, and good drink. Good day, Mr. Kestrel.”

“Good-bye.”

A flash of teeth, a glimpse of eye, and then Hannibal Sefton was gone.

Julian went to his room at last, climbing out of his boots and shrugging out of his coat with difficulty—yes, even before he found rooms he would engage himself a valet—and putting on a nightshirt for sleep. He looked out the window before he went to bed. Already the town looked familiar, comfortable, like something he remembered from long ago. It was good to be back in England.

Good to be home.

He thought he heard a snatch of music, played on a violin some distance away, but it faded away too quickly for him to be sure.

In the morning when Julian woke and went down for breakfast, he found Hannibal Sefton already gone.


End file.
